to write poetry is to be brilliantly bored
utterly famous to oneself
not lying, but sincerely rhyming
smiling or despising one’s work
quickly or slowly writing
letting the words flow out of the dark
out of the recesses of the mind
jotting it down on paper or a bathroom wall
means to be brilliantly bored with it all

There’s a stranger out there
peering out with a blankless stare
staggering stumbling
incoherent mumbling
this not at all expected
from a woman of your caliber
you're somehow injected
intoxicated with an empty flask of liquor in your grasp
primordial lust and lack of inhibition
still, out of curiosity you listen
you lend an ear that cannot hear....

you seem to be interested you seem to genuinely care
good luck to you , you gentleman, you
on your night of sin
surely nothing good can come of this
oh well bartender, some more Gin!

Love is a word used a lot nowadays
shown off and put on display
for everyone else to see male and female
but underneath this illusion, this veil
lies something so flimsy and so frail
a human being who is truly in love
would not need to show and tell
to impress others and then some
instead he would tell how he fell
in love with a woman so beautiful and so right
and how he hopes to keep her by his side
to never falter never subside
his love undying for her alone
so love is a word not to be taken lightly nor cloned
for you and i know that love is simply something
more...
than just a word heard

Creeping closer to you on a desolate city street
Its arms are outstretched
With a shuffling sound
Underneath its feet
Now seen from a distance
under a flickering street light
it now knows you’re here
and will come to greet you tonight

Now completely out its grave
On its hands and knees it will not stay
it struggles to rise and clenches the fresh dirt in its fist
its grave determination not hard to miss
on a face that’s been dead for decades
Alive and yet lifeless the drool cascades
from a rotten mouth an eerie moan can be heard
spoken aloud by a disheveled corpse that once inhabited this earth
trying not to make a sound
desperately quiet, so as not to be found
by the denizen of dirt, this hellish sight on earth
these thoughts fly by when
all of a sudden it’s interrupted by something lumbering nearby
is it the walking dead?
or simply your imagination instead?
Perhaps all of it is a dream, and you are asleep
in your bed
you cannot remember
you are not afraid
But behind you, your grave awaits....

Grave dwellers no more
a funeral stench lingers here for sure
fingers clawing at dirt
a head squeezes out from under the mound of earth
black wiry hair skin a pale gray
venous and peeled from its decay
eyes blankly staring and lifeless
here there is no comfort except the darkness
sickening sounds uttered from its mouth
impossible as it seems
for the dead should not speak
yet its moans are loud
loud enough to startle and scare
to captivate and awe and to make one well enough aware
its body rises dirt falling all around
with an eerie purpose and no sound
the tattered and torn funeral clothes
cling loosely to its putrid bones
the yellowish sneering grin from beneath half rotted lips
opens up to reveal another spine tingling moan that you can't miss
its tombstone behind the animated corpse
makes a mockery of life of course!
somehow cheating death
again returning
for some unknown reason
a corpse not content to sit still
but to wander aimlessly until its had its fill